


John And Sherlock And Sex And Meat And Meat And Glistening Beautiful Meat (Sherlock/John, NC-17)

by buttsnax



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, M/M/M, Prompt Fill, Sherlock Kink Meme, Slash, haunted by visions of meat tender thick meat the meat, m/m - Freeform, meat - Freeform, meat answered the question for us of that which is meat, meat is the meat is important meat is everything meat, meatlock, the flesh red and ripe we tear into the meat, the meat the meat the meat the meat the meat the meat the meat the meat the meat the meat the meat, whispering meat calls to us the essence of meat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 00:05:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttsnax/pseuds/buttsnax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a fill for the following kink prompt:</p><p>"Sherlock loves John in a romantic way, but he's never really been into sex (past abuse or relationships are okay) and him and John start dating. Eventually it leads to sex, and Sherlock goes with it because he's afraid John won't stay with him without sex. After months of sex, John finally figures out that Sherlock didn't really want it. So John tries to convince Sherlock that he'd never leave Sherlock and that sex isn't important."</p><p>You can read the original prompt here:<br/>http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=128427526#t128427526</p>
            </blockquote>





	John And Sherlock And Sex And Meat And Meat And Glistening Beautiful Meat (Sherlock/John, NC-17)

  


 

Sherlock sat in the common room of his shared flat, quietly contemplating the nature of his relationship with John. It had been many years since the traumatic event that erased his sex drive and scarred him so badly that he was unable to discuss it in any narrative detail, but he still had no desire for sexual contact. Not even with John, his handsome and wonderful boyfriend whom he cared about with a deepness that was equally matched only by the depth of sexual penetration he did not want to experience.  
  
Sherlock suspected, however, that John did not feel the same way. Sherlock’s keenly honed deductive mind had picked up on several small details hinting that John did not share his partner’s lack of sexual arousal: the lingering glances whenever Sherlock undressed in front of him; the way John left the bed in frustration when Sherlock just wanted to cuddle; the constant, unceasing masturbation.  
  
Sooner or later, Sherlock reasoned, he would need to have sex with John if he wanted to hold onto him. Imagining the act upset him, made him sick, but what else was there to do? To keep John in his life, he'd allow it to happen--perhaps even pretend to enjoy it, if enjoying it would make John happy. There was no way around it.  
  
His thoughts were interrupted when he heard the door slam as John barged into their flat.  
  
“Hey, bro,” John called out from the kitchen. Sherlock smiled to himself; that was the pet name John always used for him, and for everyone else. “I bought a fuck-ton of beef for the party tonight.”  
  
_Oh no,_ thought Sherlock. _That’s a sexual euphemism in which I or my butt represents the meat he wants to consume, ie, have carnal relations with. Carnal, of course, being descended from the Latin word_ _**carn** ,_ _meaning ‘flesh.’_  
  
“Okay, yes!” Sherlock cried, leaping to his feet. He hurried into the kitchen, heart fluttering with anxiety. “I am willing to have sex if that’s what you need from me.”  
  
“Sorry, mate, didn’t hear you,” said John, removing his earbuds.  
  
“Do to me whatever lurid acts will appease your libido,” said Sherlock, throwing himself at his flatmate. John didn’t catch him, as his arms were loaded with well-wrapped cuts of meat.  
  
“Use me, if that’s what your heart requires,” Sherlock continued, clinging to John’s leg after falling to the floor. “I can bear it! I think.”  
  
"Woah,” said John. He looked down at Sherlock, who met his gaze with fear. “Do you think we’re in a relationship or something?”  
  
Sherlock was stunned. John had just proposed making their romance _serious,_ so clear was it that he, being careful of Sherlock's feelings, needed a verbal commitment before they could consummate anything.

It was a deeply touching gesture. Sherlock would have been moved to tears had John not so hated to see him cry.  
  
“You’re too good to me,” he said, stroking John’s leg. “The answer is of course, yes. For you, I’ll do anything. Anything at all.”

John said nothing, perhaps overcome with emotion. He opened the fridge, dragging Sherlock slightly with his leg, and placed his rolls of meat inside the shelf one by one.  
  
“So, uh,” John said finally after he finished organizing his meats. “Can I borrow £400?”  
  
“Here,” Sherlock said without hesitation, handing his wallet up to John as he continued laying on the floor.  
  
“Thanks, mate,” said John, putting on his shades. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. You should . . . get up off the floor or something.”  
  
“I shall be ready . . . waiting,” said Sherlock bravely.

 

***

John had been gone for two hours and forty-seven minutes. Sherlock waited expectantly in the upstairs bedroom, counting the seconds. He was feeling antsy--what if he screwed the sex up and John left him? Or worse, stayed with him out of pity?  
  
Sherlock jumped as the front door slammed closed, jolting him out of his thoughts. He heard muffled voices coming from the floor below.  
  
_“Okay, so that gets me both of you for the night. Cool. You got any diseases?”_  
  
That sounded like John’s voice. Sherlock wondered who he was talking to.  
  
_"Yeah, you first. You wait in the kitchen for me.”_  
  
Sherlock tensed. Could he go through with this?  
  
_“And the other hundred is for you. Go up there and bang my roommate for me. He thinks we’re in a relationship or something. It's fucking weird, man.”_  
  
John was speaking so strangely--what was he doing down there? No matter. When John came upstairs for him Sherlock would be ready.  
  
_“How the fuck should I know? I’m not gay. Don't they like it in the butt? Just do that. No homo.”_  
  
Sherlock heard someone walking up the stairs and forced himself to relax. Sex with John was a good thing, he reasoned. He felt certain it would solve their relationship troubles and definitely not dig up memories of traumatic sexual events that would send him into a downward spiral of depression and self-loathing.  
  
The thought reassured him somewhat. He could do this.  
  
He heard a knock on the bedroom door.  
  
“Come in, John,” he called, gripping the edge of the bed.  
  
A man Sherlock had never met before entered the room. He was wearing a harness of some sort and what appeared to be a leather thong. His hair was a dark shade of brown and cropped close to his head.  
  
“Your roommate paid me to sleep with you,” said the stranger, placing his hands on his hips in a manner that was probably meant to be suggestive.  
  
“John wanted this?” Sherlock asked, his confidence fading away. He was confused. Maybe John was actually nervous about the sex--about overwhelming someone as fragile and inexperienced as Sherlock--but had been too afraid to say as much? If that was so, it would make perfect sense for John to hire a qualified sex surrogate to ease Sherlock into lovemaking.   
  
_Yes, that is a completely logical conclusion,_ Sherlock assured himself. He couldn’t believe the consideration John was showing in this moment. How lucky Sherlock was to have such a thoughtful and creative partner, willing to arrange elaborate accommodations on his behalf. Whatever would he do without John in his life?  
  
The stranger--the surrogate--cleared his throat. “So, you ready to do this? I need to be out of here in like an hour.”  
  
Sherlock nodded and began to unbutton his shirt. "If this is what John wants, then yes.”  
  
“Okay, but no kissing,” said the man, as sex happened. “That costs extra.”

 

***

Sherlock stood awkwardly beside John in the kitchen, face burning with shame. Sex with the surrogate had gone . . . poorly. Upon being touched _down there_  Sherlock was reminded of a vague, sex-related trauma and had trouble achieving erection. He called the whole thing off and held himself at the edge of the bed while the man put his clothes back on. He left before Sherlock even had a chance to apologize.  
  
John, however, was in a jovial mood.  
  
“I gotta fire up the grill,” he said, loading a tray with fine cuts of meat. “My dudes are gonna be here any time.”  
  
Sherlock frowned. “You mean people? Why?”  
  
John gave him a playful punch in the shoulder. “You know. For the epic kegster I’m throwing tonight.” John headed toward the patio, tray in his hands.  
  
“Right, of course,” muttered Sherlock, who had forgotten about the party entirely. John held so many get-togethers, it was hard to keep track of them all.  
  
“By the way,” said John, gesturing at the two women lounging about the kitchen in skimpy shorts. One of the ladies started filing her nails. “I invited some whores.”  
  
“Oh,” said Sherlock. He didn't know what else to say.  
  
John nudged him on the way out and waggled his eyebrows. “Bitches love my meat.”  
  
Sherlock hadn’t really noticed the women. His stomach was still in knots over what happened. He wanted to tell John but couldn't find the words.  
  
He decided to make some tea to settle his nerves. He filled the kettle and moved several aged porterhouse steaks off the stove to free up a burner.  
  
John poked his head back in from the patio door. The scent of charcoal and roasting meat wafted into the flat.  
  
“Hey,” John said, a beam of light bouncing off his sunglasses into Sherlock’s face. “Hands off my meat.”  
  
Sherlock burst into tears.  
  
John rolled his eyes and groaned. “Bro. You're _killing_ me with that crying shit.”

He watched as Sherlock's cries turned into sobs, and then made a face that suggested thinking. “Based on everything, it’s almost like maybe . . . you’re haunted by memories of something. Something that's causing you a lot of pain.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Damn, that would be _so gay_.”  
  
John left Sherlock alone in the kitchen and returned to the patio where he continued grilling his meat.

***

It was three hours later and the party was in full swing. A DJ was playing the latest club hits, and Sherlock could scarcely walk through their flat without bumping into the firm young ass of a dancing female.  
  
“Excuse me,” he said to one particularly curvaceous woman, trying not to spill his tea as he attempted to navigate around her. He wasn’t very good at parties.  
  
“What?” the woman screamed as she bobbed to the beat of the base.  
  
“I said ‘excuse me,’ Sherlock repeated, raising his voice only to have it downed out by the music blasting from the speakers.  
  
“I know, right?” said the woman, leaning in closer. “Isn’t this party great? I hear there’s gonna be meat.”  
  
Sherlock rubbed his neck with a free hand. “I guess so, but that’s not actually-”  
  
The woman had already turned to someone else. A man wearing a gold chain and a basketball jersey had grabbed her hips and was grinding his crotch into her very fleshy buttocks. Sherlock looked away in discomfort.  
  
He saw John come out of his bedroom, trailed closely by one of the young women he’d met in the kitchen earlier that day. John did up his pants quickly while the woman adjusted her tube top. Sherlock smiled. It was nice that John had so many female friends. Being a gay man, John could maintain relationships with women without it devolving into something crude and sexual. Yes, occasionally the women John invited over were naked, but that only signified they trusted him. John viewed women as equals, not objects. He was a model of modern feminism.  
  
Sherlock took a deep breath.  
  
“John,” he called out, placing his tea on a side table before hurrying over to where John was standing. “About earlier. I messed things up with--with the surrogate. I'm so sorry.”  
  
John waved his hand. “It’s cool, man. No worries.” He beckoned to another young lady in skin-tight leather pants. She was eating a Vienna bratwurst off a tray of hors d'oeuvres, and licked her fingers as she caught John’s eye. Sherlock didn’t blame her; John’s sausage, like all of his meats, was exceptional.  
  
“H-hey,” stammered Sherlock when he felt like he had John’s attention again. “I know you want to . . . well, _you know._ I mean, I want that too, of course, but . . . "

Sherlock noticed he'd scratched the patch of dry skin on his knuckles raw. He quickly covered the area with his other hand.

"Something happened to me," he said, eyes trailing up toward John's. "Something bad."

“Sure, you're gay, whatever,” said John. “Don't sweat it. We're all just here to have a good time. No homo.” He put his arm around the woman in the leather pants and fed her a choice piece of prime rib from his meat belt.  
  
_When he says "no homo," he clearly means that sex, though satisfying his base urges, doesn’t meet the emotional needs of a mature homosexual man like himself_ , thought Sherlock. _It’s my fault for failing to put his feelings before my own. I must do everything I can to fulfill his emotional needs lest he think our sex life is devoid of affection._  
  
Sherlock was still deep in thought when the front door was kicked open. John had vanished--as had the woman he had been feeding his meat to, oddly enough--and so Sherlock was forced to greet the newcomers alone.  
  
“‘Sup, bitches,” said a young man in a red jacket who swaggered inside. Behind him were two other men, also dressed in red. “The name’s Jim, but my bros call me J-Dawg.” He gestured at his wingmen. “This here’s my posse, T-Bone and Chuck.”  
  
The crowd stopped gyrating and turned to see what the intruders would do next.  
  
Sherlock froze.  
  
“This your place or what?” asked J-Dawg, acknowledging Sherlock with a raise of his chin. Sherlock didn’t respond. These men didn’t look like John’s friends. They seemed dangerous.  
  
T-Bone suddenly grabbed one of Sherlock’s prized monkey skulls from a bookshelf and tossed it to J-Dawg, who examined it with the gentleness of water buffalo.  
  
“Cool skull,” said J-Dawg in a tone that implied it was actually quite the opposite. “This is some creepy-ass shit, though. I mean, look at this thing." He showed it to Chuck, who laughed, the turned back to Sherlock. "Do you, like, keep a pile of doll heads in the basement, too?"

“It’s the head of a Rhesus macaque and it’s very delicate,” said Sherlock, the color in his face draining away. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t handle it like that.”  
  
J-Dawg smiled coolly and in one quick motion dropped the skull onto the floor beneath him.  
  
“Huh,” he said casually. Sherlock lunged for the skull but J-Dawg stomped down on it with a steel-toed boot before it could be reached. The skull cracked down the center, shattering in half.  
  
“Sorry,” J-Dawg yawned. “My foot slipped.” He turned to T-Bone and gave him a high-five. Chuck snickered.  
  
Sherlock felt his lip start to quaver but held it together for John, who would surely come to his aid soon. He gathered up the skull fragments and attempted to piece them back together.  
  
Inspiring an insufficient reaction from Sherlock, J-Dawg rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I’m here to eat steak and fuck bitches, and I’m all out of--hold on, is that filet mignon?”  
  
He reached for a medallion of succulent beef flesh that had been carefully plated with asparagus and mushrooms.  
  
John charged down the stairs.  
  
“Don’t touch my fucking meat!” he yelled, naked except for the boxer shorts that hung around his ankles. Tan and buff, his body would have been right at home in an MTV movie. Sherlock blinked and felt a rush of blood hit his face. Embarrassment, confusion, shame, and an unsafe feeling he had long suppressed surprised him all at once.  
  
“It’s not your meat anymore, _bro_ ," said J-Dawg, teeth ripping into the mignon. “Imma take over this party.”  
  
“J-Dawg, huh?” said John slowly, eyes narrowing with recognition and fury. “More like _Gay-_ Dog. I see you brought your frat pack with you.”  
  
“You mad about it?” J-Dawg barked. He took a step toward John, puffing out his chest.  
  
John said nothing and hopped over the stair railing. He crouched into the ancient form of the Striking Tiger and knocked T-Bone to the ground with his fist before the wingman could even react.  
  
J-Dawg pulled a bloodied T-Bone to his feet.  
  
“Prepare to get reamed,” he said, provoked. "No homo." He let out a shrill whistle and a horde of young, thuggish-looking men began pushing their way into the flat from the front door. Sherlock was nearly trampled by the stampede, but managed to take shelter behind an end table just in time to avoid getting crushed. The fratboys closed in around John as the other guests struggled to get out of the way.  
  
John arranged himself into the protective stance of Shell Of The Frightened Turtle. When the first fratboy struck he easily countered with Harmony Of The Lotus, dislocating his attacker’s shoulder in one move.  
  
Sherlock watched in awe from his hiding place. John was a merciless wind of destruction, artfully knocking out two other attackers and a young woman caught in the crossfire.  
  
J-Dawg screamed and ripped his shirt open, revealing hairless, heaving pecs. From beneath the table Sherlock heard a woman swoon.   
  
“Do you know who I am?” he demanded as John brought down another fratboy with his fist. J-Dawg took the form of the Quivering Scorpion. “I’m the Napoleon of _fucking your shit up.”_  
  
The two men fought with blinding speed. John struck like a tiger; J-Dawg danced away like a silverfish. John swept his leg with the infinite grace of the Diving Cormorant, but J-Dawg grabbed his leg and jabbed upward in a perfect execution of the Thrusting Boar.  
  
John crumpled to the ground as Sherlock looked on in horror.  
  
“Shouldn’t have fought me, bro,” J-Dawg said, pulling back his fist to deliver a coup de gras.  
  
Just then John saw something on the ground.  
  
He reached out his hand and grasped a delicate tenderloin, now flattened by their martial arts moves. Ruined. Uneaten. Inedible. Wasted. Seeing his meat in such a disheveled state made his blood boil.  
  
J-Dawg's blow landed squarely on John’s jaw, but John shrugged it off like it was nothing. He roared and launched himself up from the ground at his assailant.  
  
“You. Ruined. My. Steak.” John's primal rage lent him strength that no mortal man should have been able to wield. He barreled into J-Dawg, smashing the man into the wall and pinning his arms.  
  
“Nobody touches my meat like that,” he whispered, using his massive biceps to lift J-Dawg into the air and bring him down sharply across his knee.  
  
Sherlock heard the crack of J-Dawg's spine as John snapped the man over his leg. Victorious, John let the loser's body crumple to the floor.  
  
Relieved, Sherlock raced out from behind his cover and flung his arms around John, who said nothing but breathed deeply through his chest. His fists were clenched.  
  
“Thank you,” Sherlock said, maintaining a platonic distance between his pelvis and John's penis. “You saved me.”  
  
He nibbled his lip and lowered his head as one might in confession. If he was going to talk to John about their relationship, he had to do it now, with strangers present and in what may or may not have become a crime scene. “John. I ... haven't been entirely honest with you. The truth is, because of the--the _thing_ \--I mentioned earlier, I can’t satisfy your physical needs right now ... or maybe ever. I'm sorry." His voice tapered to a whisper. "I want to tell you everything, some day. Believe me."  
  
Tears sprung from his eyes as he realized how far he was from having that conversation, and what it meant for them. He pressed his face into John's shoulder and said "I'm sorry" again. 

John was silent.  
  
“I’ll do anything else you ask, except  _that_ ,” Sherlock said earnestly. “Anything. Can't that be enough?"  
  
He looked up at John's face, searching. John shrugged.  
  
“Sure, I guess,” he replied, scratching his balls. He peeled away one of Sherlock's arms. “Hey, let go of me. I gotta take a shit.”  
  
John shook Sherlock off of him and lumbered toward the hallway bathroom. Upon reaching the door he paused and looked over his shoulder at his now limp flatmate.  
  
“Could you clean up these bodies for me?” he asked. “I’m super fucked up right now.”  
  
“Yes, of course,” said Sherlock, wiping his eyes. “Whatever you want.”  
  
“Cool,” said John. “When you’re finished here, pick me up another case of beer from the corner store. Oh, and a pack of smokes.”  
  
With that, John slammed the door to the bathroom and loudly relieved himself.  
  
Sherlock looked at the bodies strewn across the floor. The party had created quite a mess--it would take him several hours to scrub out the blood that caked the walls and floor. But at least he had John.  
  
Sherlock smiled. What an amazing party.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A sonnet for the meatless.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230580) by [AlisStarChan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlisStarChan/pseuds/AlisStarChan)




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